29 April 2009

On our last day in Rio, our flight to Manaus was not until late evening, and hotel check out was mid morning. They were kind enough to hold our main luggage in store for the day, whereas there were lockers available in the changing rooms poolside to hold our hand luggage, so we could still come and go as we pleased, with full access to any odds and sods we might need for the day.

Plans to spend late morning and early afternoon poolside were suddenly scuppered with the arrival of a tropical storm, which meant sitting in the poolside bar, gazing out the window and listening to the world being drowned out by the persistent and insistent cacophony that is guaranteed to ruin any holiday.

Fucking Americans.

Not happy with the barmans inability to control the weather, thus preventing them taking a cable car up Sugar Loaf, they screeched at each other in their nasally twang about everything, and yet nothing.

I'm sure that in the land of the free and home of the brave etc...you can not be sacked at a job interview for refusing to let your employer see your Facebook page - largely due to the fact you can't really be sacked from a job you don't yet have, and secondly, because it's just plain fucking stupid.

I know we've all heard of occasions where people have slagged off their employer on Facebook, and then they've got wind of it, but the whole 'I insist on vetting all your friends and check out photo's of you out boozing', before giving someone a job is just nonsense - as was pretty much all they had to say.

My main umbrage was when Mrsslippy went to get her bag out the locker, and couldn't find it.

Not her fault - despite the lockers being numbered, her key didn't open the locker of that number, but she'd somehow managed to circumnavigate this, and by chance locked it in the locker next to it with a different number. When she returned to the changing room and saw the locker with her keys number on it open...well...she was a bit concerned. I had both passports, but there was purse, ipod, camera, and loads of clothes that could all be replaced, but it would have been a major pain in the arse for her to have to do that.

Mother Slippy said she'd been given that locker key originally, and it wouldn't lock, so she'd had to get a different one.

It was all starting to look a bit arse.

The bar staff and pool assistant spoke enough English to provide booze and towels, and nothing more, so trying to explain to them that we had a missing bag mostly met with knowing nods and smiles, but nothing behind the eyes to give the faintest indication that they had a clue what we were talking about.

It was at that point that one of the Yanks decided to stick his oar in.

He'd been listening to our predicament, and I thought he was trying to help. Not so. It would appear his friends were bored of listening to him, but he was yet to be tired of his own voice, so thought he'd come and bother us.

"Where are you guys from?" he drawled.

"England" I mumbled under my breath, trying not to engage or make eye contact.

"I'm from America". No shit. I'd never have guessed. Now fuck off we're in the middle of something here.

"Are you from London?". Why do they always ask that? Yes we all live in London, and know the Queen, apart from a small pocket of us who come from Liverpool and used to hang out with The Beatles.

"No" seemed an appropriate response to imply that I was not interested in conversation, and would rather he disappeared up his own self important arse.

"I'm from Texas". Again, I'd kind of worked that out, and again, really not interested.

Maybe he was starting to take the hint of my disinterest, as he started pursuing this game further with Mother Slippy.

"Are you from London?"

"No, Norwich"

"I've not heard of that"

"It's in the East of England, nearly as far east as you can get."

"Really??"

"In Norfolk"

"Oh, you have a Norfolk too? I never knew that!"

OF COURSE WE HAVE A FUCKING NORFOLK TOO, WE INVENTED IT YOU CUNT!!!

And it's full of rolling hills, and beautiful coastline, little churches and big windmills, mustard, and some of the finest little pubs selling some of the best beers you will ever taste in your life. linky

28 April 2009

Strange as in you have no idea how or why you got there, not because you knowingly went to bed in a strange place forcing you to wake up there, so if you're reading this in Ipswich, then no, that doesn't count.

I only ask because this morning whilst strolling to work (there are witnesses), I passed the time, as I often do, by listening to The Perfect 10 podcast by Phils Jupitus & Wilding.

The premise of the show, is 10 random questions pulled out of a jaunty hat, and all answered within 30 minutes, so it's the perfect length to get me to work. It's fun to play along, and this morning, that was one of the said 10 questions, and it got me thinking.....

I think I have it - but in case anyone else involved recalls and is reviled by the tale, I'll keep it anonymous. Feel free to 'fes up yourselves if you can help fill in the blanks.

I reckon it happened in the Summer of 1998. I'd not long returned from a holiday in Spain with friends, so when he call came for a 'Beach Party' from one of said friends, it seemed the ideal way to relive those glorious summer days.

However, this was no ordinary 'Beach' being over 30 miles from the nearest bit of coastline, and tucked away in the snug of a disused East End pub.

A good friend worked with some guys who actually lived in a run down boozer. A group of us were going to travel down from Nardge, and crash this party. What could be cooler than a party in a pub?

Arriving, it was clear that this part of London was yet to receive any regeneration. Everything was closed or boarded up. There were no new cars. It was like where TV directors shoot something when they need to transport us back to the 70's, or even the Blitz.

The house/pub itself was one of those classic 'corner of the street' jobbies. Just like The Queen Vic, but with boarded up & blacked out windows, and three stories high. There were no optics or working pumps on the bar, but yes, the bar was still there, and if memory serves, they'd procured a keg with a tap on it for the night, and much, much more.

The beach effect was achieved by dumping a couple of tons of builders sand over the floor, and a foam machine. The sand would come in useful later for burying sick (not mine!), if people couldn't be arsed to find the toilet. I do recall one friend giggling like a loon as he spotted a couple getting jiggy with it on top of where he'd recently blown, and then hidden, chunks.

The foam machine may have seemed like a good idea at some stage, but it was clearly designed for large stadium events, not East End Boozers, and the room was floor to ceiling in Matey in a matter of seconds. No wonder people were hurling.

At one stage of the evening we decided, on mass, to explore the upper echelons of the house, and amongst the rooms of folks shagging, we came across the master bathroom. Huge and ancient, with a big enamel bath in the corner.

As we were all covered in builders sand, a clean up was in order. I'm not entirely sure how things escalated from a 'you clean your feet first, then I'll have a turn', to everyone stark naked fighting to not be stuck at the tap end.

I can confirm that it is possible, but not strictly advisable to fit seven people in a bath. I don't think I even got my feet cleaned anyway, as if memory serves I was sat kind of side on, with my feet hanging over the edge. It's a memory I thought I'd erased from my mind, and don't want to dwell on, but I'm sure a couple of friends must have been stood naked just behind me.

.....don't turn round....don't turn round....don't turn round....

There weren't enough towels for seven people, being none, but the inhabitants of the pub obviously liked to use the bathroom as a giant airing cupboard, as there in the opposite corner, were a couple of clothes horses covered in clean dry clothes.

Of what we did next, I am not proud.

Oh Hell - yes I am...

We used the entire contents of these poor generous schlubs clean washing to dry ourselves, then threw the evidence out the window.

Wet, filthy clothes back on, we returned to the party - beyond suspicion, since the whole episode had been an act of futility anyway.

My last memories of the party itself were loitering around outside - waiting for a taxi as the sun rose over London. I didn't know where we were going, just that it was somewhere to refresh a little before the journey back to Nardge.

Friends tell me that the journey itself was pretty bizarre, with Arabs burning black rubbish bags at the roadside as we drove through a distopian landscape of inner city despair.

I wouldn't know.

I recall nothing more.

My next memory is of Buzz Lightyear....

...attacking my head....

...'to infinity and beyond'...

It would appear that we had crashed at a friend of a friends house, still in London, and this friend of a friend had a small child.

...who owned a Buzz Lightyear doll...

..and was hitting me over the head with it.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, it seemed that 8-9 people had slept in this living room, some of whom were already upright, some of whom were still coming to.

I, for may sins, which must have been many to deserve an awakening like this, was lying prostate in the middle of the living room floor. No pillow under my head, but stark bollock naked, save for a scatter cushion pressed to my groin in some kind of last ditch attempt at modesty.

That cushion stayed pressed there for a good 10 minutes as I made myself a coffee, and wandered around like a soul lost, in search of my clothes, and beginning to wonder if they even came back from the party with me.

So there you have it. Strangest place I've ever woken up is naked, among several strangers, on a complete strangers living room floor, being assaulted by a small child with a plastic doll with a superiority complex.

26 April 2009

I witnessed this poster on a bus stop in Manaus, and was so disturbed by it's imagery, and intrigued by what it was advertising, that I had to take a picture to delve deeper when I got home...

It does indeed seem to represent two talking cocks, so typing 'Dialogo dos Penis' into the webs best translator, Babel Fish (named after Douglas Adams version of Star Treks universal translator. In The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, a yellow leech like creature inserted into the ear that translates sound waves into brain waves) results in the English 'I dialogue of the penises'

Not quite 'talking cocks', but close enough.

And what does Babel Fish make of the tagline - 'Tudo que as mulheres gostarian de saber sobre o que os homes falam delas numa mesa de bar'?

This apparently means

"Everything that the women would like to know on what the men speak of them in the bar table."

Ahhh...so it's a show about what men really think about women.

So why the hell is it advertised with two comedy phallus's?

But that's not all that bothers me. In this predominantly catholic country, isn't it a bit odd that these are bagged cocks? Whatever would the Pope think with two rubber clad monstrosities shooting the breeze in a Brazilian Bar.

Perhaps he would find it acceptable, as they are clearly inadequate forms of contraception, as they have gaping great holes to fit their mouth parts out of.

What he definitely wouldn't find acceptable, is that by the way they are sitting so closely together, facing each other, whoever owns them are apparently doing some male variation on scissoring (there's probably a proper term for it - I'm so not up on gay sexual positions).

Next up - the one on the left appears to have a belly button. Either that or its a festering sore.

Both clearly wrong. Very wrong.

And what are they drinking? Is that piss with a frothy jizzy head?

Could be..........

And by the way the foam is flying around, I can't be really clear if they're emptying those glasses, or filling them.

Finally, they are using that lovely plate of food as an ashtray.

Dirty Brazilian Bellends

At least there are a couple of positives to take away from this - it's ok to smoke and get your cock out in Brazilian Bars, and fags and booze do not cause impotence as once suggested.

25 April 2009

Not just because after 3 flights, 26 hours of travelling, and 32 hours awake (not including a bit of cat napping mid Atlantic), I finally got my own bed, and most importantly;

My own pillow

Bliss.....

And not only that, the correct number of pillows.

I'm a bit of a fussy fucker when it comes to pillows.

I need at least three. I tend to sleep on my side, so I need two for under my head, and one down the side to support my arm. That might sound a bit greedy, but I've got quite broad shoulders, so the side of my head is probably about 10 inches (don't make me measure it) from the mattress once laid down, so just one just won't do.

And then my opposing arm is at least a foot and a half off the bed, so unless I prop it up on something, it goes to sleep.

If at home, this doesn't even need to be a pillow, as I can choose between;

Mrsslippy - although my propensity for sweating like a hippo's minge tends to curtail this quite quickly

Busta

A stuffed proboscis monkey called Barry who lives down the side of the bed

A stuffed Yoda who lives wherever the force takes him

The great thing about Barry and Yoda, is that they have arms that attach to each other, so they can be worn like a furry armband, preventing loss during the night, although it is quite disorientating to get up in the night for a piss only to find an alien glued to your arm like a Koala on acid.

**Top tip** if you need to get up in the night, but can't turn the bedroom light on for teh fear of waking your other half, only open one eye. You can then carry out your ablutions (watch out for that depth perception though if not sitting!), and go raid the fridge.When you turn the lights back off you'll now be blind in this eye as it has become adjusted to the light. Shut it and open the other one, and you'll still be able to see to stumble around the bedroom.

Anywho, pillows...

I've got enough, or enough substitutes at home, so why oh why oh why when I stay anywhere else, there is only ever one, and it is only ever wafer thin?

I've had the pleasure and privilege of staying in a multitude of different establishments over the years, from the most basic of wooden shacks to even worse (Travelodge, M4....), but no matter how shitty or plush the establishment is, there is only ever one pillow on the bed.

If you're lucky there's an extra one in the wardrobe, but more often than not, it's just more fucking blankets.

We just stayed in a very nice Hotel in Manaus, and despite it being 24 degrees C at night, there was a sheet, a thick over sheet, and a counterpane on the bed - none of which would actually be required for me as I would be sleeping on top of everything - yet still only one fucking pillow.

And what was there in the wardrobe? More fucking blankets!!

I harped on about this to Slippy Snr., but his suggestion was that it was easy enough to ask housekeeping for more. But why should I? In what school of Hotel Management do they teach, "When it's really fucking hot, make sure there are at least three layers of linen on the bed, and then stick some more blankets in the wardrobe just in case..."

So what generally happens is blankets get folded up and stuffed under the solitary pillow, which is bound by the laws of Hotel Management to be shit also, but if folded in half can almost be used to sleep on, as witnessed by Mrsslippy as I caught a little late afternoon catnap.

And while I'm giving friendly advice to hotels, yes, white sheets do look freshest when put on a bed, but they don't stay like that very long, but if you really want housekeeping to see exactly where I sat when I got undressed for bed, then feel free to keep them that colour.

24 April 2009

Hoorah I'm home, and what better way to celebrate than some Marmite on toast?

I'm very much like a jar of Marmite, not because you either love me or hate me, but because I smell of yeast and have sticky brown residue around my rim....

Only joking, but I do love Marmite. Everyone should. Unless they hate it, which is kind of ok, as long as you have a strong opinion one way or the other.

Marmite - I'm kind of indifferent is not an option.

Love it, love it, love it. Missed it, missed it, missed it.

We couldn't even get decent toast, let alone the yeasty goodness that goes on top.

But perhaps more important that the actual Marmite itself, is how it is prepared. This is a contentious issue, and I'm sure Mrsslippy will disagree, but here is how to make perfectMarmite on toast.

Firstly, the bread. It must be white, and it must not be plastic pre-sliced rubbish. A quality split tin or crusty bloomer it must be.

The bread should be sliced to a thickness of no less than 8mm, but anything up to 20mm is acceptable. Any thicker than that and it may not fit in the toaster, or will be still too cool on the inside when the outside is cooked.

It should be toasted for just long enough to have taken a golden colour all over, but with definitely no carbonisation. Think polished oak, not mahogany.

On removal from the toaster prop one slice up against each other to cool for around 30 seconds, as if building a tower of cards. If you butter it straight away, it will be too hot and all the butter will melt. If you lay the toast flat to cool, the steam will make the underside slightly soggy.

Butter.

Not spread, or marge, or Olivio.

Proper, harden your arteries and lift your cholesterol, butter.

The butter should be kept in a cool, but not cold. If used straight out the fridge, it will be too cold and you risk damaging the delicate golden surface of your toast. If at room temperature, it will melt too quickly and the toast will go soggy. It should be firm enough to slice, because that is what you will need.

A slice of butter.

From a standard 500g packet of butter you will need a slice around 4mm thick for each piece of toast.

Drop this onto the middle of the toast, and smear, not spread, smear the butter in no more than four strokes of the knife. You are not trying to create an even layer from edge to edge, but to have ridges that you can sink your teeth into, and little bare patches thatremain all crispy toast.

Now, and only now can you open the Marmite.

You will need enough to cover the knife blade half way along.

This should now be applied to the toast it the same manner as the butter, in a 'drop & smear' manner, so the toast is a marbled brown and yellow slab.

The resulting affect will be toast heaven. Crisp on tyhe underside, and fluffy in the middle.

The top will have small crunchy bits to it, thick dollops of Marmite, little pools of melted butter where it has been spread thinly, and lumps of cold hard butter where it is still in it's sliced format.

Absolutely perfect.

Serve with a steaming mug of tea, and settle back to watch TV. The Sky+ has only 4% left on it - I guess Slippy Towers will be mostly catching up on missed shows this weekend......

You can´t see the Piranha as they lurk a bit deeper, but you can lure them out with a bit of meat on a fishing hook - I caught four of the bitey buggers

It would take a either a very brave or very stupid man to swim in water that was infested by these beasties

Which do you reckon I am? I believe I am brave, I suspect Mand thinks I´m stupid...

The water is too acidic for the mosquitoes, so no mozzy bites.

Ants do not care how acidic the water is, as they live on land, and are the size of small dogs, with teeth to match, and like the taste of me

There are more than one species of tarantula indigenous to where we were staying

My inability to shake my lurgy has meant no voice for around 10 days, and will probably mean I end up on N3 being treated for a Tropical Disease when I get home despite the fact that its just a good old British disease that I brought with me.

Some of my clothes will never smell clean again

We´ve still got a few more days to relax in luxury before the three (count em)´flights to get back home, so I´m off for a Caipirinha or several.

08 April 2009

Mrsslippy and I have mostly spent the day packing, and untangling the unfathomable number of wires required to keep us, and our electrical goods happy whilst on holiday.

We shall be taking;

2 Cameras, each with a different charger

2 phones, again both different

A camcorder - different connector again

2 Nintendo DS's . Mine's a Lite, Mrsslippy's is old school, so more different sockets

2 ipods - yay - at least they're both the same!

I shan't be taking a laptop, or the pocket digital radio, so small mercies there, but all in all we will require 8 different plugs and cables (and some headphones), the majority of which are now stuffed into my hand luggage in such a manner that when it goes through the x-ray machine it'll resemble the kind of device that gets trigger happy policeman all twitchy.

With by bag of goodies I resemble some kind of gadget obsessed Sport Billy.

Make that Spod Billy.

Why oh why electrical manufacturers can't just get together and decide on 2, maybe 3 standard charging tips I'll never know. Keep the ipod one - I'm sure it needs to be that fancy, but everything else that just requires a positive and negative connection can either have a simple pin, or mini USB.

The next problem is that the eco village we're staying at for a few days has no electricity, so anything that has a replaceable battery has had one bought for it off ebay, and I've spent the day fully charging everything, and it's back ups.

And not content with that, I've bought a solar powered unit, that will charge it's internal Li-ion battery, and then dribble the leccy back into a multitude of devices via a USB cable with (11!!) interchangeable tips to match your gadget - even if it still doesn't have the one that fits Mrsslippy's Samsung phone.

What could be more ecologically sound than that?

I'm sure that will come somewhere close to cancelling out my carbon skidmark. How much jet fuel does it take to charge an ipod anyway?

So fingers crossed that we get plenty of sunshine in the rainforest ,or nothings going to charge, and I'm going to have to resort to that other last minute purchase today.

A book.

Although I won't be able to read it by torchlight if the batteries go in that.....

07 April 2009

Nowt on the JVC website, and even less from teh interwebs, so a damn good rummage around all my old discs eventually came up trumps, which means I can now rip all the tapes I took in Borneo, and upload them onto YouTube to bore the tits off people.

And I've got 10 blank tapes to take to Brazil, so while they'll be no bloggage for a couple of weeks, get ready for shedloads of Amazonian Adventures when I get back.

First video up, is living proof (apart from the obvious physical differences) why I would make a shit Ewok.

Friends will attest that I am a complete blouse when it comes to heights.

I've been in the London Eye, but that was easy - you get to walk on at ground level, and then just stand still as it spins on its unholy axis.

The Eiffel Tour was also mechanically assisted. Once at the top I could step out of the lift, but still needed to be physically dragged out into the viewing area by Matt.

Hell, I even jumped out of an aeroplane with Stevo, but by that stage I was so manic with fear that I don't think I even knew what I was doing.

But to walk, one step at a time over a rope bridge suspended high in the treetops is another matter. There would be a trade off - Mrsslippy has absolutely no fear of heights, but is terrified of cockroaches, and later in the holiday we would be visiting the Gomatong Caves.

Featured on Life on Earth as the cave with the worlds highest pile of bat shit, the whole floor is a moving carpet of roaches.

I do the bridge, Mrsslippy does the cave.

Quid pro quo Clarice...

What you don't see if me climbing the ladders to the highest point of the trail - I do that after the clip finishes, but you can see the abject horror on my face.

Believe it or not I actually had bit of a tan at the time - you wouldn't know it looking at the colour of me.

This is where we've just walked to. There are two ladders to be climbed, each nailed to the tree.

The ladder was too short for a lanky bastard like me. I ran out of rungs to put my hands on before I could get my legs clear onto the platform. That, and the fact that the eyelets on my walking boots kept getting caught on the ladder meant I couldn't have been happier....

But I did it, which meant Mrsslippy was coming roach spotting.

Nope, I could never be an Ewok, I'm much happier with the creepy crawlies in the swamps and cesspools of Dagobah, which is where we stayed later.....

06 April 2009

Mr & Mrs Slippy are on annual leave, which means no work until at least the 27th April, and a trip to Brazil to marvel at the wonders of the rain forest, and Matts massive foreskin, which due to deforestation is apparently losing at least 10 square centimeters of excess bell end brolly every day...

And what better way to celebrate, than a trip to the boozer, followed by a trip to the Chinky.

And what better way to annoy the hell out of me that by adding more superfluous machines to an already over inundated drinking hole.

If I were to stick a quid in every machine in the Robin Hood, it would cost me £25 I would walk away with...

nowt out the cash machine. It only takes money when you take money, and I don't want to spend £6.50 to take £5 out

nowt out the ciggy machine. I'd need to pump in £7 for 16 tabs. Thank fuck I've given up

a packet of Smints

3 johnnies

some jam rags - according to Mrs Slippy - I've never been there.....

around 6 chocolate minstrels

not enough skittles

up to £25 out of one computerised game machine, but probably not.....

up to £50 out of the two fruities, that are now also computerised, but again, highly unlikely

8 plastic balls out of the 8 plastic ball machines........

Because yes dear reader, what your average pub seems to require these days is a side serving of children's toys.

You know the type of thing I mean. A dispenser of frivolity that you see parked outside supermarkets, and other such areas where you might find demanding little shites.

And not suffice to just have one of these wholly inappropriate machines, the Robin Hood feels it needs eight.

In fairness, they are double stacker's, so they really only have four.

Four.....

And they've split them up, so there are only two machines in any one area (each dispensing two different variety of ball), so they're not really that obtrusive.

And two of them are stacked next to a fruity, so they're handy enough for your pikey parents to placate the kids by just chucking coins straight out of one machine into the next without even having to get their lazy arses off their stools, an action made easier by the handy drinks holders built into the fruity.

I can see why they need eight, because if they only had the one, what would they choose as the theme? Now kids can run around my sanctuary happy in the knowledge that if they need a pounds worth of badly produced plastic to throw around, they can take their pick from;

Pokemon

Barbie

Spongebob Squarepants

Ben 10

Hello Kitty

Marvel

More Pokemon

Dragonball Z

I half expect to have a ball pool and some kind of crazy jungle gymnasium installed in the pub by the time we get back off holibobs.

Call me old fashioned (because I am), but the boozer is for grownups. I've already stopped smoking in them, because we had to, and now I don't smoke at all thank you very much New Labour.

I get frowned at for swearing, because I might offend young Tarquin, and before you know it I'm going to be asked to move tables because I'm in the way of someone's fucking hopscotch.

Now a pint of Speckled Hen, a Bacardi and Diet Coke, and a Mr Crabs ball please landlord. We've got drinking and ballplay to get on with.

05 April 2009

Mrsslippy and I have had the pleasure of witnessing the bonding of Miss Rebecca Rudd and Mr Paul Clopasz, from henceforth, Mr & Mrs Chopper.

Not content with spending the best part of the past year working their way around South Asia, the bastards wasted no time nicking off before the end of the celebrations to catch a plane to California, so we still don't know if they're legally married, unless they managed to cover some of the finer details on the plane.

Good luck and god bless to the pair of you.

The weather was grand, the bride stunning, and even Chopper looked presentable, cutting a very fine jib in his funky shoes - chosen for dancing, not for polishing.

I shit you not, that the roast beef was the best I've ever had at a wedding reception, and better than most restaurant attempts at the same thing. And to get pork too, with crackling to die for, left me a very stuffed and content slippymark.

The band were fantastic, it's such a shame that my back was again borked, or there would have been shapes thrown that would have befuddled Pythagoras and Euclid. Fortunately there was enough booze and good company on tap to still have a wonderful evening.

And to bring out plates of bacon butties as the evening drew on? Pure inspiration. Didn't need them, but it would've been rude not to have a couple. And some sausages. And some of the fairy cakes that Rebeccas mum made, that were the actual wedding cake (rather than some mucky marzipan - bleugh!)

A nice hotel nearby polished off a perfect day. The Maison Renouf was upmarket enough to have a whole 'help yourself' display of drinks, fruit, muffins, flapjacks and biscuits in the corridor, so help ourselves we jolly well did, and off to Katieluv's room for hot chocolate, and more cake.

I shan't lower the tone by revealing who's just bought a 'special trimmer', who's the only one of the group to have had a 'Hollywood', or just what I did to that grape before I gave it to Gingerfeck.

Congratulations Mr & Mrs Chopper. I hope you have a fantastic time in America, and we'll see you for all the pictures when you get back.

03 April 2009

Following on from yesterdays bloggage, and comments on my Facebook page from Stoxie, it is probably time to come clean and say

I was once a terrible football hooligan.

I'm not proud of the fact -not because I used to hack at complete strangers with a Stanley Knife, or chuck bricks through windows in random shopping centres in strange and alien towns.

Oh no, not me.

I didn't do that.

This is not a 'Once upon a time I was a very bad man' story.

This is a 'Once, just once I was a hooligan at the football.'

And not terrible as in 'I maimed and assaulted', terrible as in, 'I made a really shit job at it.'

I've already established the pre match ritual for a discerning Cringleford lad. After legging it from McDonalds we would make the happy pilgrimage to Carrow Road in order to be at the turnstiles when they opened at 1pm, ready for the 3pm kick off.

To sustain our growing bodies during this 2 hour wait (as if the cockles & mussels, McDonalds sans gherkins wasn't enough), we'd call into the newsagents close to the ground for a few packets of Soccer Shields.

Soccer Shields were the boys equivalent of Love Hearts in the 8o's. Made by Swizzles, they had a football teams name, and their nickname on each sweet, and had a club sticker on the inner packaging. I can't find any pictures online, but as I finished the wallchart that the stickers went on, I reckon it would be worth a few bob these days. And a great way to learn all those club nicknames, particularly the obscure Scottish ones.

The appearance of Norwich (The Canaries! -oh yes - he's still got it - even the little clubs), would be lucky, and herald the imminence of a goal if produced mid game.

But on the 21st March 1987, the red mist came down, and it all went wrong....

I don't remember the exact date, but I think Norwich were at home to Luton, I'm pretty sure I was in the 3rd Year at High School, and positive it was around my little sisters birthday, so that's the date that seems to fit the bill. I'd been shopping before the game, that's how I can be sure of the date. I'd bought something I needed for school for a class I dropped in 4th year, and a birthday present for Bec....

So there we were, with 2 hours to kill, standing behind the goal in the River End, taking it in turns to squash whoever it was that was closest to the side rail in the little penned in area behind the advertising hording.

Starting to have a bit of a sugar rush from all the Root Beer and Soccer Shields, I thought I might see if I could hit the helmets of the two passing policeman with said sweets as they circled (or is that squared?) the ground.

I was getting pretty good at it, but unbeknownst to me, the rozzers were well aware of my bit of fun, and were about to put a stop to it.

After a clean shot to one of the Bills helmets, the Soccer Shield bounced off his shoulder, and was neatly caught in his black, leather gloved hand.

Turning quickly on one heel, he just raised a solitary finger and pointed at me. If he'd squealed like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I don't think I could have been more scared.

Except I didn't show it. I just stood there grinning like a loon, high on sugar.

He asked me if I'd thrown it, to which I naturally shook my head, still grinning.

I don't think he was convinced, as his response was 'Yes it was, and you've been doing it every time we walk past.'

Next thing I know, I was being dragged over the hoarding, and frog marched towards the exit.

I think I was lucky that they didn't clock me for the hardened criminal that I was, and just ejected me out of the ground. Lucky they didn't check my carrier bag and find what I was packing.

Because these are the objects that not only date the event, but have caused me grief from friends over the years whenever this story crops up, and would have caused me so much more had the police revealed them in front of the terraces.

It was my 3rd year at school, because we were still doing Home Economics, and that meant needle work, and as part of a 'project' I'd bought a length of shiny pink material.

And Becs birthday, because I'd bought her (not Farmyard Animals Matt!) a set of 'Sylvanian Families.'

Little mice dressed to look like people.

If those items had been produced in front of the Norwich massive, I'd have never lived it down, and barely do in some circles to this day.

The record shows that the score was 0-0, so I didn't really miss much.

Yes dear reader, I was once a terrible football hooligan. Just once, and a really terrible one at that.

02 April 2009

I went to bed slathered in Deep Heat last night, to try to ease the discomfort in my lower back.

I love the smell of the stuff - it reminds me of Root Beer, which left me in nostalgic mood as I drifted off, thinking about my childhood Saturday routine of food and football with good friends.

Start by meeting Mumbage, Soxie, Hunty and Plum to catch the Number 1 bus into Norwich. Straight to the market to purchase cockles & mussels alive-alive-o (well cooked actually). In a pre-curser to the Yo-Sushi style so favoured by young trendies today, you just ate tiny plate after tiny plate of salty mollusc's, then just paid for the number of plates consumed.

Next JJB Sports to peruse the sporting regalia. Careful with that snooker cue display Stoxie!

Onwards to Jarrolds, this time to tit about on the latest fitness/sporting sensation, the Trimball!

Anyone remember this baby? The idea was to bounce in an orderly fashion, and get fit in the process, unless you were a Cringleford lad. Jarrolds had a demo model, and the idea of the game was to do the best 'Platini'. That is, whilst completed un-impinged by friends or other shoppers, fling your arms in the air, shout 'PLATINI!!!', and dive headlong into the display in the style of cheating UEFA boss Michel Platini.

Stoxie was by far the best at this, and in recognition of this fact it was added into his already massive full title.

Richard Stoxie striker Nery Alberto Pumpido on the Trimball

Which was more than often shortened to simply 'Baller', or 'ohh laa laa le balon'

Legging it out the shop, it would then be time for a pre match McDonalds.

Huntys favourite game here would be to ask for a Coke with his meal, to which the sales assistant would have to say 'It's McDonalds cola, is that ok?', to which the stock response would always be 'No, it's not. I'll have a Root Beer'

Every week.

Standard food was a Big Mac, complete with mucky gherkins. None of us ate the gherkins, but we never asked for one without them, because they were required for the next 'lucky routine', which was to fling than at the ceiling in Mucky D's and see if you could get them to stick. We thought we were so funny, but if I saw kids doing that today, I'd probably get the urge to smack them upside the head.

If you were lucky, there was a kids party on with yellow and green balloons that you could nick to take to the football with you.

If you were unlucky, they were attached so firmly to the light fitting that the whole thing came out the wall, and you would be legging it out of another Norwich establishment.....

Happy days and highjinks...

It's a shame you don't see Root Beer at McDonalds any more, or even McDonalds cola - they've gone all official Coke.

And don't try eating the stuff to see if it tastes the same, because it doesn't, although it does leave a pleasant tingling taste on the tongue.